


there are no pan asian supermarkets down in hell

by fideliter



Series: forty miles from atlanta [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Beginning story quests, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Series, F/M, aka i like writing my SS and had no other place for these word vomits, i'll add tags as needed!!, loss of limb, this is basically a nonsense set of drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliter/pseuds/fideliter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You must try to lead a good life, so that when you die, you'll find golden boy peanuts waiting in the afterlife for you."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary lyrics are from Golden Boy by The Mountain Goats!

Georgia prided herself on being adaptive; after all, being able to roll with the punches was what made her good at her job. But the end of the world... it just happened so _fast_.

One minute, they were making afternoon plans. Halloween loomed, but setting up the decorations could wait until _after_ the park. But then the world was _ending._

Sirens. Shaun crying. People pleading, praying, and then - 

She closes her eyes. Draws in a deep breath. Releases it, and slowly opens her eyes.

There's a gun clutched in shaking hands, hands that haven't stopped shaking since they pounded on the glass, since they slipped the ring off her dead husband's finger. The sun is bright, glaring after the vault's darkness, and it takes her eyes a moment to adjust.

She almost wishes they hadn't. 

She was _just_ here, standing on this platform. It was just a few minutes ago (though it felt like hours, _days_ ), and yet the view is almost unrecognizable. The air smells stale and rusted, lingering thick in the air. The gun clatters to the platform with a loud, metallic noise and nails dig into her palm as she balls her fists, presses them against her eyes when the tears start.

She didn't just lose her baby, her husband. She lost the whole damn _world_

She sits on that platform and cries, mourns for everything ( _everyone_ ) shes lost; it takes a long time. The wind howls, a gentle breeze to ruffle at her hair. In the distance, she thinks she hears birds chirping, strange little squawks that she doesn't bother to pay attention to. But when she's done, when Georgia can finally breathe again, she picks up the pistol and follows the dirt path back home.

(She doesn't know to check her surroundings, doesn't know what to look for. Not yet, at least. So she misses the glint of sunlight reflecting off of glasses, misses the small almost-shack in the distance.

She doesn't notice _him_ , but he notices her.)

\----

Fingers knead at the dirt, carefully tucking the newest seed into place. The sun is hot, the air sticky - it's nearly unbearable, but she _has_ to get this done. It should have been done days ago, but the soil had been too damp. Georgia never claimed to be a gardener (or anything close to it), but it _had_ to be done. The Abernathy family, down the road, had been willing to give some tips - which the brunette had been quick to take to heart. 

If the Minutemen survivors were going to stay here in Sanctuary, they needed a _permanent_ food source. And Georgia, well... 

She _wanted_ them to stay.

It was stupid, she knew, but she liked them. Sanctuary didn't feel like a home (it barely lived up to its namesake), but having people walking around helped, a little. Voices and quiet laughter filled the air, and she felt a little less lonely. They seemed like good people, too - knowledgeable in all things and friendly, for the most part. But most importantly: they were welcoming, and slowly Georgia finds herself opening up. 

Just a little, sure. But it's a start. 

The world is... indescribable. It's worse than any of the pre-war propaganda had warned, and she's pretty sure none of those scientists could have predicted the horrors that are deathclaws. But despite this _wasteland_ and every horrible thing in it, there were still bright spots. It took awhile for her to find them, but they're there. The dog at her side is a big one, even with the fleas.

It'll take some time, but she'll find her way.

That's what she _does._

Within a few weeks, there are small sprouts of green popping up from the soil. Despite her - _their_ \- hard work, Georgia almost expected nothing to come from it; she expected the soil to be too dead, too ruined to cultivate life. And yet, soon her neighbor's backyards are filled with melons and tomatoes, greenery stark against the landscape.

Even now, even after everything, hope grows.

\--

The first time they meet, there are people pointing guns at her. Which isn't exactly a _new_ thing, but it's hardly favorable. Next to her, the dog growls, lowers himself as his hackles raise. Carefully she places a hand between his shoulder-blades and quiets him, lifting the other into the air.

She isn't here to hurt. She's here to _help._

(She wants to spread those seeds of hope, fill the Commonwealth with purpose. She knows that it can change, one person at a time. 

And the synths? If anyone deserves a second chance, a new life, it's them.)

The first time they meet, he vouches for her. Sticks his neck out, risks his good word - all on a gamble, a whim. Blind faith is in short supply in the 'wealth (and for good reason), but that's exactly what he offers; he trusts that she's not lying, that she truly _does_ mean well. 

It's a big risk, and he takes it without even knowing her. Without even knowing her _name._

(Turns out, he won't know her name until much, much later. And by then, she'll know that Deacon's word is never as it seems.

And she'll know that it was hardly the _first_ time they met.)


	2. Chapter 2

She blinks, more than a little dazed, and still the world refuses to come into focus.

There's a ringing in her ears, a burst of white noise. No, wait, that's not right. It's _nothing_ like the static that interrupts the radio when a storm rolls in and interferes with the signal. This hurts.

Oh, fuck. 

This hurts a _lot._

Once Georgia makes this realization the pain comes in full-force, like it was just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A cry rips from her throat as she raises a hand to touch her head (where most of the pain is coming from, white-hot and sharp), when a hand grabs her wrist. The touch is gentle (not a raider, then), but she still flinches, trying to twist away. It's instinctive, by now; a hard-learned reflex courtesy the Commonwealth. She doesn't get far: between fingers flexing around her wrist and the way her shoulder screams in protest, she happily lets her arm drop.

It takes her a minute to realize someone is speaking, voice slowly rising above the ringing in her ears. Takes a few extra moments to realize just _who_ is doing the talking, but the voice is unmistakable. "Shh, hey. Boss, stop. You're okay." _Deacon._ But there's something off about his tone, an edge of concern in his voice where there’s usually only a lackadaisical drawl. She turns to face him, to figure out why he sounds so shaken. 

Only then does she realize she can't see.

"Deacon," she pants, a sharp, frightened edge to her voice. "Deacon, what happened?" _Why can't I see?_ There's a sense of something amiss, but she cannot put a finger on it; it remains just out of reach, and the thought _terrifies_ her. Georgia raises a hand again and cries out again - _how could she have forgotten about the pain in her left side already?_ \- but still her fingers brush against his armor, the fabric warm and sticky. Blood. His? 

Somehow she doubts it.

"Ah, well. You know, the usual. Apparently everyone wanted to ruin our nice, quiet afternoon stroll." He voice has evened out a little, but there's still a sharp edge as he babbles and he’s talking a little faster than usual. His touch flutters over her skin - she can feel the sensation of pressure, but little else. "We all relax in different ways, I guess. But, just between the two of us, _I_ think they're jealous of two great pals having fun in the sun."

There's a sudden pressure on the side of her face and she hisses, trying her best to move away. But Deacon's hand is cradling her neck, keeping her still; his fingers curl into her nape, tips skimming her armor’s neckline. It’s easy to focus on _that_ , and if she concentrates hard enough, maybe she can block out some of the pain. (It sounds nice, but it’s next to impossible.) Georgia still doesn't know _why_ they’re here, can't smell anything but blood, and over Deacon's babbling she can hear the distant sound of gunfire. 

And in between his quips (something about how this used to be a nice neighborhood and how he's going to bring it up at the next PTA meeting), it's getting closer. 

"Aww, shit." He mutters, voice low in her ear (why was he so close? What is he _doing_?), and there's a sudden clatter of something metallic. Maybe plastic? It's hard to tell. "Listen, Georgia. You're hurt real bad, but I have to move you. Just... hold on, alright?"

The shock of her name - her _real_ name - being used is the last thing she remembers, and then it's just white-hot pain.

And after that, there's nothing.

\---

It was raiders, she learns later. Deacon tells her the story in bits and pieces, obviously hoping to jog her memory. But that's in tatters, as is the left side of her body. 

The doc liked to joke that she'd left more than just her memory behind, but the joke stopped being funny the moment she realizes just how _bad_ the injuries were. The doc stops smiling somewhere between when hysterical laughter turned into real, body-wracking sobs.

It was raiders, she learns later. By themselves, they wouldn’t have been a problem - between the two of them, they’d taken out their fare share of raiders. But it wasn't _just_ raiders. The firefight managed to attract the attention of a wandering yao gaoui, who'd taken Georgia by surprise. They weren't known for being quiet creatures, but the gunfire had covered its lumbering steps and the telltale rumbling growls. 

The doctor tells her this in an upbeat, almost happy tone, and she thinks she remembers. That split second in between reloading, when she realized something was wrong - right before claws sliced into her like her armor was made of paper. 

Yeah. She thinks she remembers that.

She doesn't remember what happened next, though. Doesn't remember Deacon, the only one standing, left staring at what he thought was her corpse. Doesn’t remember all that _blood._ Doesn't remember his honest-to-God panic, eyes wide behind the sunglasses, trying to stop the blood. She doesn’t, _can’t_ , remember the way he carried her to the nearest settlement - knuckles white with fear and exhaustion, doesn’t remember the way he murmured almost-prayers that there’d be a doctor in the town. 

\---

The scars are the worst part, Georgia comes to realize. Though the sudden loss of limb is jarring, uncomfortable to look at (she hasn’t even given herself the time to start _thinking_ about it, letting alone _dealing_ with it), it’s the ugly, patchwork scars that stick out. This early, hardly healed, they are fresh and grisly. Deacon quipped something about _looking tough_ , but that’s hardly a consolation. Stretching from the side of her face (the yao guai had just _barely_ missed her eye - a small miracle), down her shoulder and to the elbow. Her left forearm had been amputated indelicately, the inexperienced doctor doing the best with what he had - which is to say, next to nothing.

It’s…. _well._

It’s a lot to take in.

She’s leaning against the bathroom sink when the door opens, the wood creaking on its hinges. She doesn’t bother turning around, because she knows those steps - recognizes that gait. Instead her gaze shifts in the foggy mirror, looking away from her mess of a face to Deacon, who lingers in the doorway like an uninvited guest. 

There’s a moment of silence between them, before she tilts her head slightly. “Well? How's it look?" 

"Absolutely horrifying," he agrees with a wrinkled smile. 

Georgia tries to return it and thinks it might be one of the first times he told her the truth. Her features flutter, trying to find an expression that doesn't make the entire left side of her face hurt. It doesn't really work, but she feels a little better when Deacon reaches forward and laces his fingers with hers.


End file.
